Airplanes and Marriage and Cows

The MLTR days

I’m back at the Amsterdam Hotel in Juba, a fine international establishment run by Eritreans whose boss lives in the Netherlands, with a bar tender/DJ who I suspect somehow got ahold of all the mixed tapes my best friend who lived in Singapore used to make from her radio and send to me in Indonesia when we were in middle school (yes, cassette tapes, I’m old). A bit of Michael Learns to Rock, a smattering of Savage Garden, that one song about “as I lay me down to sleep, this I pray—that you will hold me near, though you’re far away,” plus an annoying boy band or two that I had to fast forward through (Chesi and I don’t always share the same musical taste). If Lea Salonga comes on next, though, I’m going over there to demand they give me back those tapes they stole because I will be for sure that they’re mine. Even if I have nothing on which to play cassette tapes, sentimental nostalgia is a thing. But the good news is: as long as they’re playing Danish, Australian, and Filipino classics like those, they’re staying away from the inexplicably popular Canadians like Celine, Justin Bieber, and Bryan Adams.  I would say that I’m looking forward to different music blaring from the Mundri market tomorrow, but dang it if those guys didn’t snag a copy of a Middle School Chesi mixed tape too. At least at night it’s all African stylz jams from South Sudan, Somalia, DRC, and Bob Marley (anyone in the world is allowed to claim Bob—Jamaica is too small to hold him).

Flying out of Juba sucks,
flying into Entebbe is nice.

 Tomorrow I will suffer for an hour in the hellhole that is the Juba Airport, but one hour in the Juba Airport equals about 4 hours of misery in a car on the Juba-Mundri road, and a typical trip on that road would take a total of 9 hours, giving me a 5 hour of misery deficit thanks to MAF South Sudan.  And if they can hook me up with more flights like this in the future, I might just marry Charles from the front desk. I mean, he did ask me.  He is convinced that I could easily learn how to make aseeda (aka the Blob) and he really doesn’t mind spicy food. He is concerned about how to make the necessary payment of cows and goats to my father in Indonesia, though.

The truth is, I have way more options for marriage here, and people tell me all the time that I need to get married, and probably to someone from here. Here are some of the reasons that I have been told for why I should stop this single life and settle down with a man (preferably one from here):

I did get a beautiful leaf ring
on Orthodox Palm Sunday
from my Ethiopian shopkeeper.

           

1.     You’re not getting any younger.

2.     Everyone needs to get married.

3.     You need to have children.

4.     I have a house for you.

5.     You live here, so you should marry a Moru/South Sudanese person.

6.     You should marry a Moru/South Sudanese so you can have dark skinned babies.

7.     You should marry a South Sudanese so you don’t forget how to speak Juba Arabic when you’re not South Sudan.

8.     Because I will treat you so well—just ask my wife.

I was invited to marry this guy and live in this
house when he's finished building.

Many of those comments I’ve heard more than once in multiple locations, often at unexpected times. That is the beauty of South Sudan. You never know when you will get an offer of marriage. You could be in the market just trying to buy bread or picking up your bike from the shop or trying to plant a garden with a friend.

A week ago I was flying back into Juba on AIM air (a MAF alternative that rarely cancels flights on you at the last minute and often offers you a ride if you are willing to pay for it) with a group of khawajas who had been hanging with me in Mundri for a week. We landed in Yei to do exit immigration from South Sudan. I was pretty excited about this because it meant that we didn’t have to go through Juba. And still, while it was better than going through Juba, South Sudan doesn’t want you to think that immigration—exit or entry—is just some easy breezy walk in the park. No.

We walked into the little house where the police sit to gaze at passports and stamp away, and there was no one there. Did they know we were coming? Why yes. Did they know when we were coming? Absolutely. Did they know that they were the sole reason for us even stopping over there? Possibly they had some vague idea. But they didn’t think it was worth it to be there when we arrived. No worries. We settled down to wait, as a helpful airport worker called them to ask them to come back from lunch. Thirty minutes later they sauntered in.

“Great!” we said. “Let’s do this stamp thing.”

“Oh the exit stamp?” they said.

“Right. The reason we are here.”

“Um… yeah, about that…”

It turns out the lady responsible for bringing that stamp, that beautiful reason for our presence in that blessed airstrip, had forgotten it back in town. (Insert your: YOU HAD ONE JOB jokes here…or, I guess, that was it…)

This is all we needed.

She huffed in annoyance at us, the people she came to stamp through immigration, such an inconvenience to her, and she slowly climbed into her car and drove back to town (about 30 minutes away) to get the stamps.

Meanwhile, we waited. And we waited. And while we were waiting, a nice airstrip worker/police guy meandered over to where I was sitting on the steps outside of the building. After some mundane conversation about why I was sitting on the steps instead of a nearby plastic chair, he got right to the point:

“You should marry me. I want you. Let’s get married.”

“Umm…well…interesting…do you have the exit stamp so that we can finish immigration and carry on with our journey?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess I can’t marry you then. If you’d had it, I probably would have said yes. But since you don’t, I won’t marry you.”

“But I want to marry you. You know I don’t have the stamp. You should marry me, Really. I am a great husband.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know that? How many wives do you already have?”

“I have some. It’s no big deal. I also want to marry you. You can have kids. Every woman should have children. You’re getting old. You really should marry me while you can.”

Eyebrows raised by me. “I’m old, huh? How old are you? And how many kids do you already have?” (He must have know about the cassette tapes.)

“Yes. You are old. But I will marry you. I only have 10 kids.”

“Only 10? You can take care of that many children?”

“Sure. They are all going to school. It’s no problem.”

“Yeah? And how old are you?”

“22.”

“You’re a liar. You really want me to marry you if you are lying to me?”

“I am 22. And I’m Ugandan.” (I think he was Dinka, though, because they have a specific accent when they speak Arabic, which I know from one of my friends who thinks it is hilarious to mimic that accent. Note: it kind of is…)

“How many cows does your father want for you? Or would he prefer goats?”

“Well, he lives in Indonesia. Can you get there to deliver them?”

“No problem. How many does he want?”

“At least 300 cows and 1 elephant and 5 monkeys.”

“WHAT?! That is crazy. I can give 3 cows and some goats.”

“He wants 300 cows. And no goats. One elephant. Five monkeys. I’m a foreigner. I’m imported. You know imported things are always more expensive.”

So basically this conversation went on way too long, but eventually, by the time it was becoming less funny to me because I was really hungry and tired and worried about all the plans I had for our short time in Uganda not being able to happen, the lady got back with the stamp. Immigration was completed in 10 minutes and we were on our way, and I’m still single and in danger of being a childless old maid. But, you know, I have options-for now. I am getting old…But then the DJ plays a classic Danish pop song, and I’m 11 again…like a “sleeping child…the world so wild…but I’ll build my own paradise…”

They built their own paradise.

Happy birthday, Iren and panjang umurnya! Thank you for reading my blog.
I love you and your family and I know you listened to Michael Learns to Rock as a child too
because it always played in BIP.
Hope I get to see you soon!

Come Fly With Me -- if you have unlimited time and a high tolerance for pain and misery...

If I have internet access or in-flight magazines, I will always read the articles with travel tips or interviews with celebrities giving advice for their airplane must-haves. I was reading this article the other day by some fashion model/designer who name I had never heard before and already forgot, and I remember how she said that she NEVER eats while traveling. She doesn’t eat on the plane or in airports and she won’t bring food with her either. I remember thinking that she must not do too many international trips or else how could she make it that long without eating? And then I remembered that she was in the fashion industry, so she’s probably had a lot of practice abstaining from food. But for me and my most recent international travels, eating has been crucial to survival.

Traveling in SSudan
makes you look like this.

It started in mid-November. I was on my way to Khartoum, and, inspired by Leif, the reason behind most of my recent Sudan travels, I decided to wait until the last minute to buy my ticket to Khartoum from Juba. Unfortunately, this was a time-sensitive trip. I needed to arrive in time to get my passport to the immigration office before the weekend, which begins on Friday in Sudan. This left me with a very small window for traveling there. I called over the South Sudanese weekend (Saturday and Sunday) to buy the ticket for Tuesday or Wednesday, as I planned to leave Mundri for Juba on Monday or Tuesday. I ended up leaving on Tuesday, after assurances of easy ticket purchase for Wednesday. Monday we found out that tickets were not so easily purchased. I called in the big guns, i.e. Leif, to find tickets that got me in to Khartoum on Thursday morning. He obliged. My itinerary—Juba to Entebbe to Addis to Khartoum. Well, when you are desperate… But my dreams of an easy 1 hour trip were dashed into a million pieces and 14 hours and 4 airports. Bonus: I got Mohamed the immigration guy’s phone number because in my sleepless delirium I thought that my visa hadn’t been renewed in time and I flirted recklessly for what turned out to be no reason at all.

Getting off the plane in Juba last week--a self-portrait 

So I can blame Leif, his last-minute trip-planning philosophy and ticket-finding skillz on that trip, but fast forward 10 days, and I am the only one to blame for buying a ticket from Khartoum to Doha to Philly to Bham, with a 9.5 hour layover in Doha and a 10.5 hour layover in Philadelphia. But I did get to see friends and family, and I do remember that was part of my plan. But I think I was on some kind of mind-altering experimental drug when I bought the return ticket. My plan was to stop in Uganda for a day and rest before taking a nice MAF flight back into Mundri. I had some beautiful plans for that day too, involving sleeping and eating candy and charging all of my electrical devices. Instead, my flight schedule took me from Birmingham to Chicago to Frankfurt to Jeddah to Addis to Entebbe to Nairobi to Juba. Then the next day I traveled by car to Mundri—it only took 7.5 hours this time to drive 110 miles. Except for that part when we heard gunshots coming from the bush right next to us, it was a normal bumpy dusty ride. For the gunshots, we killed our headlights, popped into 5^th and hit the gas for about 10 minutes until we were sure that we weren’t the target of those bullets. We left too late and ended up driving a bit after dark—not the best idea, but when you’re desperate…

Then today I wake up early to call MAF at 8am for their ETA (estimated time of arrival) in Mundri. I had to use the sat phone because all of the cell phone networks were down. I called their caring customer service and heard “////////Icanhearyouclearly////” on the other line.

“Please speak slowly and loudly—I’m calling you from a satellite phone!” I yelled into the receiver, with my croaky hoarse cold-voice, while trying to keep the phone antenna pointing straight up into un-impeded sky at all times (not really that easy). In reply I heard “/////////callbacklater///////.” Well, after I got the girl to repeat herself 10 times, I was pretty sure I heard the “callbacklater.” Talking slowly and loudly seems pretty basic, but it is hard for some people. Still, they said they could hear me, so they must have known that I said I was calling from the sat phone and if you don’t know how to talk to people communicating by satellite phone, then you really shouldn’t be working with people in South Sudan.

I called back an hour later to a similar conversation. I said, “OK—I’LL CALL AGAIN IN AN HOUR!!” Then when I called again in an hour, the networks were finally working again and we had the following conversation:

MAF: Hello. Who is calling?

Me: Hi, I’m calling from Mundri again for the ETA.

MAF: From where?

Me: MUNDRI.

MAF: Right, I think that the ETA is 1pm, but if you had called at 10:30 like I told you to (emphasis NOT added by me), then I would be able to give you more accurate timing.

Me: I TOLD you that I couldn’t hear you. Is it more likely that the flight will arrive before or after 1pm?

MAF: *click*

Me: #$%^&@#%^@

Then the flight finally arrived at 1:30pm. I was paranoid at that point that it wasn’t going to come at all and I would be stuck. I hear we are flying straight to Arua (the point of entry in Uganda), and I was quite glad that this meant that we were not going through Juba. However, when we arrived in Juba, I found that MAF had decided to skip over landing at Entebbe International Airport (which was the destination that I had requested when I booked my ticket). No, we were landing in Kajjansi airstrip, about an hour away from the airport. I did not pretend to be happy about this, but my pilot was apologetic and arranged for a taxi to take me to the airport from Kajjansi. I would have been nicer about it, except that I had to pay $50 for a visa and then sit outside waiting to check in.  And there was the time that he turned to the plane and said, “OK-is there anyone else still trying to arrange transportation from Kajjansi?” Like I was some slacker who waited until the last minute to plan for travel arrangements to the airport. I think that he was actually trying to be nice (he was Canadian), but it did not hit me well. I spent the flight planning a speech that would be both apologetic for blaming him for not landing in Entebbe (it was not his fault) while at the same time managing to covertly insult Canadian pop culture (I’ve been oppressed by Bryan Adams music a lot recently and I want to blame SOMEONE for that). But I didn’t get a chance to talk to him after we landed. It is too bad. It was an epic speech.

Anyway, I’m in the Entebbe airport. My flight to Amsterdam is already delayed, but I think I still have time to get to my next flight. But now I’m mad at the stupid lady who checked me in and swore she gave me aisle seats because I’m pretty sure that only one is on an aisle. I was the first person to check in so it shouldn’t have been hard. And she was so smiley and nice and assuring about it. Jerk. I have to remember to double-check when people hand me the boarding passes. It’s just that I get so many of them…

Boarding passes from my last trip

Well, since our flight is delayed, I’m going to go get the complimentary cold beverage I earned. Then I’m going to get some ice cream because the AC is not working in here and I had to change into my “winter clothes” already and I don’t want to get sweaty.  Then I’m going to try to find a KLM representative…I ASKED FOR AN AISLE SEAT. DO NOT MESS WITH ME TODAY. Anymore. Please.

International Airport Epilogue

I knew I should have waited until re-entering Juba to write about the airport there. I sensed there would be more adventures. Actually, it was so horrible that there were several moments when I had to remind myself that it was funny. Maybe my sense of humor is still in bed in Khartoum, not wanting to get up at 4am with me…

 I left the guest house in Khartoum with the sound of the adhan (call to prayer). Leif dropped me at the airport, paying a nice porter to take the ginormous bag of stuff I accumulated to take back with me. Sorry family, none of it was for you. No Sudan presents for anyone, even the BORG (BORG=BOy and lRiG) twins, because it took Leif’s huge bag to transport all the presents, left behind stuff, newly imported office supplies, etc. As a general rule, I never use porters because I’m always afraid they’ll run off with my bag or I don’t have change and basically, I’m just a very thrifty person at heart, raised by the great and wonderfully frugal Peter Stillman, buyer of pretzels, not cheese puffs, because you get more grams for your money that way. As a matter of principle, I hate paying for things that I can do myself—luggage was made to be lugged. Today all of my principles were thrown out of the window and trampled on by crowds of people whose own principles dictate that they never wait patiently in designated lines. Leif paid the first porter, and I paid the second. I did a much better job selecting my porter, though, as Leif’s insisted I pay him more money, once he’d lugged the bag to the door of the airport. Knowing that Leif had already paid him too much, I scoffed, and he dropped the bag and left. Jerk.

I dragged the bag in and through security, and cheered myself up by impressing everyone with my Arabic. Really, it’s a great comfort to me that most foreigners here are so lazy about learning the language because it makes my life easier when people are impressed by me. I was checked in by a lovely, happy Marsland employee who thrilled to converse with me in her native tongue. Incidentally, Leif told me that UN employees are forbidden to ride in Marsland planes because they are considered dangerous. It turns out, I flew on an Alexandria Airlines plane, because I think that the Marsland plane (parked right beside the Alexandria one) must have needed some last minute maintenance. I’m just glad that they realized it before we were airborne.

I also want to note, regarding Khartoum International Airport, that they did have velvet ropes, and people waited in line. However, a loving white and brown cat did not feel the need to be restricted by ropes or lines, and he wandered freely, rubbing up against one unsuspecting passenger who jumped, gasped and knocked over his suitcase. No one but me was entertained by this, apparently. I made it through immigration without cat incident, impressing the officer with some casual Arabic greetings, before getting to the waiting room where a security guard insisted on knowing how much money I had in Sudanese pounds and US dollars. When he saw my wallet, currently stuffed with 4 international currencies from nearby countries, he realized he didn’t care, and he waved me through.

Before going through immigration in Khartoum,
you are required to get the "goodbye" stamp
on your boarding pass.

After this I still had another security check to go through before waiting to be ushered onto the bus that would take me to the airplane. It is at this point that I realized that you can take the people out of the Juba Airport, but you cannot take the Juba-Airport-style pushing out of those people. A tall girl walked calmly in front of me to push through security first and mobs of people tried to squeeze out the door, onto the bus, and up the stairs into the plane all at the same time.

Skip ahead two hours and a tasteless meal later, I climbed down the rickety stairs back onto South Sudanese wet, rainy tarmac. I ran to the arrivals hall, smack into a wall of people. I squeezed my way to the immigration window, filling in my entry card as I walked, dodging confused people who were trying to figure out how to do theirs. When I finally got up to the window, a stupid tall man carrying a kid, stuck his hand over my head into the window and handed his 3 passports to the guy. I probably would have let him go first, as he had a kid, but I admit to being seriously annoyed, especially as he didn’t have the right visa information in his passport added to the fact that he had 3 passports, and I only had one and could have been gone way faster. When that guy was finally done and I had, by sharp elbows and a well-placed backpack, pushed another long-armed gentleman out of the way, it was my turn, but the officer decided to switch computer keyboards at that moment, and another 10 minutes was lost in plugging, unplugging, restarting, etc. I took a moment to helpfully insert my entry card into the back of my passport where the visa was, but when the guy finally took my passport, he took out the card, never looking at it, and threw it to the side in the desk. Then he proceeded to ask me all of the information that I had just filled out on the card so that he could slowly type it into the computer. Then he thumbed through every single page in my passport (and I have extension pages) to the very back where the visa was. I did not speak Arabic with him. I did not want to prolong the experience of being squished into a sharp counter top with tall people breathing down my neck.

A blurry photo of baggage claim-
the baggage is on the floor

When I finally got finished with immigration, I was stuck in a very determined crowd. I tried to push out and nearly fell on my face tripping over luggage strewn about on the floor. It was then that I realized I had located the baggage claim. This distressed me a bit, as I had two sacks of roasted chickens (a Khartoum specialty) in that bag, which I’d brought back for the Juba people upon request. There were moments when my bag was visible between the long legs of the mingling crowd, but it was a long time before I could manage to squeeze myself back into the crowd I had just escaped to grab it. This was after I tried 3 times to call James, hoping he could use his charm to come in and give me a hand. He didn’t hear his phone because he was waiting in a similar crowd outside of the airport, I discovered later. Fortunately, a helpful porter saw my dilemma and grabbed the bag for me. He gently deposited it on the table for the security guard to check through. The guard opened the bag and noticed the sewing machine for James’s wife. I was happy he was going for this and not the bags of chicken because I really didn’t feel like explaining something that I had already thought was a bad idea to begin with (bringing chickens), but I’d done because I like to be liked.  But I was quickly concerned because he demanded an invoice for the sewing machine. Here is where I brought the Arabic back in, talking quickly and explaining the situation to him. Fortunately for me with no invoice, he was enchanted by my skills, amazed I’d lived here only 2 months, thrilled I learned Arabic in Jordan, and otherwise completely unconcerned about the other things in my bag. Mr. Porter graciously carved a path through the huddled masses to the exit, stopping considerately while another guard demanded to see my passport again. We met the perpetually cheerful Pastor James outside, who had been waiting in the rain for an hour but never stopped smiling for even one of those 60 minutes, I’m sure. He was then over the moon about the chicken and the sewing machine, and I forgave him for not answering the phone and was very pleased that I’d brought him chicken, because he is worth way more than 6 chickens and a sewing machine, and his winsome demeanor soothed my anguished soul from the antagonism of the Juba International Airport.  But I realized that I really need to make up with MAF soon because I want to avoid doing this in the future as much as possible. 

James wasn't inside to stand up for me,
so I took this photo quickly.
One smiling guy is on to me though.
You can see him just below my finger.

The International Airport

When I was first coming to South Sudan, a kind friend said something sarcastic about how I would love the Juba Airport. He didn’t know that at the time I was still on good terms with MAF, and I only had to touch down briefly there before flying right on to Mundri. I noted the smallness of the building from afar, but I couldn’t have possibly guessed as to the state of its interior. Also at that time, I neglected to get an entry stamp upon arrival in Juba and later when trying to get my work permit, the immigration officers asked me why I had no respect for their laws. I said, “Of course I have respect for your laws—that’s why I’m here trying to get my work permit. If I got in the country without a stamp, I could totally work without a work permit, but I’m not going to.” But it turned out OK—they made us write an apology letter about how sorry we were for our gross offence and how it would never happen again. Then we were all back on good terms again, and they were happy that a foreigner in their country can speak Arabic. I didn’t even get a fine…sometimes there are benefits to being in a new country that forgets it has the power to extract large fines from unsuspecting foreigners.

A few days ago, I got my first opportunity to fly from Juba International Airport. Here is that story (along with a few another random stories that also got stuck in this one because I just follow my train of thought whenever I type out important events for this blog):

After waiting in a haphazard line outside of the door of the airport for a few minutes, they finally let us inside. Naturally, as soon as the line started moving, people started casually stepping into the queue in front of others, as if they were going to move through, but then remember that they need to go into the airport for some reason, so don’t mind them, they were always waiting in front of you in line, don’t you remember?

Once inside I immediately wished for my superior height that I enjoyed so much in India. I realized a while ago that I have become short again in South Sudan.  After walking through the jungle for several hours one day, I noticed the ladies I was with laughing that the leaves and the dirt I collected on that excursion were all on my shoulders but on their stomachs. Growing up with Marian, my baby sister who grew taller than me when I was in the third grade and she was in first, I had always suspected I wasn’t exactly statuesque.  But then I’ve lived in Asia so long, I’d forgotten that I am technically one of those people who has to buy ‘ankle’ pants or wear heels to keep the hems from dragging on the ground. In India people were always marveling at my extraordinary height. Once walking down the street a man said to me, “Your earrings are very nice. You are very nice. You are very tall.” The other day a man in Juba walked by me and said, “Hello Schoolgirl!” Maybe it was my knee-length skirt and t-shirt? Maybe it was my diminutive stature? Anyway, in the airport, I grabbed onto James and let him lead me through the crowd of tall people to the appropriate counter for Marsland Aviation. Isn’t that a nice name for an airline? It evokes thoughts of interplanetary journeys and other such exotic adventures. I tried to find out the origin of the name on Wikipedia, source of all information necessary for satisfying curiosity of lazy researchers, but I’m not sure why a Sudanese Airline would be called that. Wikipedia mentions an Australian comedian, some town in Nebraska, and the S.S. Marsland. If anyone of my brilliant readers knows what significance ‘Marsland’ has for the Sudanese entrepreneurs who started this business, please let me know in the comments so that my mom is not the only one who has to comment on my blog. She feels very responsible for providing me with literary encouragement.

My Marsland ticket with all the dangerous information deleted out with the thing that fixes red-eye. Observe my new name: Mr. Kate Stillman Amanda--it's not as good as Mr. Amanda Stalin, but at least it kind of matches my passport.

After checking in, I proceeded to immigration, which is the next step in this particular airport. If you feel it is an important part of the immigration experience to have special lines designated by velvet ropes or even yellow tape on the floor, you will probably be a bit disappointed in the Juba Airport system. If, however, you like the freedom and exhilarating excitement of elbowing your way through the crowd up to the window, behind which a harried-looking immigration officer sits grabbing passports thrust under his nose, stamping hurriedly before holding it out for someone (hopefully its rightful owner) to grab, you will find all your dreams come true. You may also assume that it would be ok in such a system to take a photo of the immigration counters, something frowned upon in more rigid velvet rope-type societies, but you would be going too far. Fortunately, only one pompous rigid-society-wannabe noticed my quick iPhone shot, so you get to experience the magic of Juba International vicariously through my photography skills. And bless my sweet Pastor James who unknowingly perjured himself insisting to the anti-photo vigilante that I was not even thinking about taking a photo, I was merely looking at my phone from up in the air. I love Pastor James. It is impossible to find a more consistently cheerful man anywhere else in the world. If you are feeling any level of miserable, one moment with him will make you forget all your troubles.  I am bringing him back some stuff he had to leave behind here in the north when he was forcibly relocated to the south along with others descendants of southern tribes.  He now works and ministers happily in Juba while his wife and kids live in Uganda. Not an easy situation but a fairly typical one for people here, as Juba isn’t considered the easiest place to live or raise a family.

Immigration at Juba International Airport

Finally, I made it up to the counters--all my training in sharp elbows throughout the two-thirds of my lifetime spent in Asia was preparing me for that particular moment. I casually leaned against the counter, boxing out a pushy tall man from an attempt to slip by me. I rested my hand against the window, as if I were just stretching out my arm for a bit. Then *BAM* -- I struck fast like an Indian cobra and slapped my passport into the waiting hand of a surprised immigration officer who had never seen a Khawaja so skillfully maneuver through the masses of impatiently waiting people. We proceeded to have a lovely chat, to the annoyance of everyone else while he thumbed through my well-worn passport (it takes a while because you have to go through to the very end) to find my visa and work permit, took a photo of me after making a big show of pointing the camera down (he didn’t want me standing on tiptoes, though I was just trying to help because the NBA basketball player behind me was definitely going to be next and the camera was just going to have to be pointed up towards the ceiling again), and wished me a pleasant journey.

Moving on, slipping and ducking nimbly through the crowd, I made it to the security line, where suddenly order was enforced by a bossy security guard who even dared to separate the travelers into two lines—male and female. He then asked me politely to allow a woman with a baby to go before me, and I also accepted with great civility. When it was finally my turn to go into the waiting room, I quickly noticed that the x-ray machine was merely for decorative purposes only, placed in the room because its presence would be expected by the aforementioned velvet-rope-type people. Instead, grim-faced men and women checked carelessly through passengers’ bags, rummaging for suspicious objects by hand. I passed through the metal detector, but I’m not sure if it was turned on or not. I don’t usually set those things off, so I don’t know. If only I had a robot leg or something that could always keep me informed…maybe someday…I bet then they’d let me go before baby-carrying women at least.

In the very crowded waiting room, I found a seat and plopped down. Usually, when I can afford to be picky, I only choose seats on the end of a row, making sure to have an extra one for my bag. But I always feel righteously angry whenever someone takes up two seats in a crowded room, so I kept my bags on my lap this time. The unfortunate ACs were overworked in the crowded room and my extra-modest outfit was not exactly airy, but I’m always better with heat than cold, so I was able to wait patiently and listen very carefully to the fuzzy announcement a lady was making on a microphone for the flights that were about to depart. I gave up my seat too early, though, hearing “Khartoum” but not understanding anything else, and apparently Marsland wasn’t the only flight to K-town that day. But my flight was called shortly after, and I was able to amuse myself by eavesdropping on unsuspecting fellow travellers who didn’t know that I could understand them…fun times…

Well, you are probably aware that I made it safely to Khartoum, a two-hour flight with a full meal served (Take notice of this true customer service, all airlines in the US and some in India!), and tomorrow I head back to the south for a brief week before popping off back to my home-continent of Asia. I have at least two more times to try to navigate the beautiful Juba airport. I’m sure that every time will be more exciting than the next, and DANG IT MAF WHY WON’T YOU JUST FLY ME OUT OF MUNDRI? I’M ONE RELATIVELY SMALL PERSON WHO TRAVELS LIGHT! WHY ARE YOU SO SELFISH AND MEAN ?

This could have been me, but it won't be thanks to MAF.

Meanwhile, this could still happen next time I have to Mundri-Express it back to Juba. Again, thanks to MAF.